Page 9 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

“ M iss Waterstone.” Lord Dufton took Lucy’s hand in greeting. “How lovely you are today.” The practiced flattery coming from his lips did nothing to dull the threat lingering in his eyes. Nor to stop his hold on her hand, as he squeezed the fingers so tight, the bones pushed together.

Lucy wanted to scream. Stomp on his foot. Declare she would never wed him. But she only whispered, “Good day, my lord.”

“So fragile.” Dufton pulled her close so Sally wouldn’t overhear. “Breakable, in fact. Don’t make me break you, pet .” He released her fingers slowly before approaching her stepmother. “Mrs. Waterstone.” Dufton took Sally’s hand. “Another beautiful flower in Waterstone’s garden. He is a lucky man.”

Sally preened at the compliment, fluttering her lashes as if a rock were stuck in her eye.

Lucy took a place beside her stepmother on the settee. Clasped her hands. Stayed perfectly still. Watched as Dufton charmed Sally with his false smiles and platitudes. Her stepmother giggled like a silly schoolgirl the entire time. If she only knew what sort of man Dufton truly happened to be.

The earl flashed a sly grin in Lucy’s direction.

She tamped down the inclination to shudder, because he wanted her to be afraid. Dufton would take great pleasure in crushing Lucy beneath the heel of his boot. There was cruelty behind that affable mask he wore, a promise he would enjoy hurting her.

I won’t marry him .

I cannot be forced .

True, she had been subsisting on Father’s charity, so to speak, but that was due to the theft of her dowry more than anything else.

She would rather live in Hyde Park than wed Dufton.

The thought brought Estwood to mind, handsome and dazzling.

Hating every inch of Lucy. It pained her greatly, what he must think of her.

Possibly if she had shown even a hint of backbone at Granby’s long ago house party… if she had just?—

Stop, Lucy. There is a more urgent matter at hand.

She raised her chin a fraction of an inch to regard Dufton.

He frightened her. But not enough to accept her circumstances.

Father was a difficult man. Lucy knew that truth better than most, after a lifetime of tiptoeing around him.

But she was still his daughter. True, he’d taken her dowry. The money left to her by Mama.

Resentment seared at her skin.

But regardless of his glaring faults, Father loved her. He wouldn’t want her physically harmed. If Lucy explained the situation, surely, no matter the desperate circumstances he faced, Father wouldn’t wed her to Dufton.

Sally and the earl continued to converse for the better part of an hour, laughing together like old friends, ignoring Lucy completely. Nothing more than a potted fern to them. Or a vase, perhaps.

Just as well. It was best if Lucy didn’t attempt to speak.

Dufton’s presence made her far too anxious, which would have her teeth and tongue at odds.

Once, she’d had a governess, Miss Capwitch, who’d taught her, when the lisp became pronounced, to breathe.

Compose herself. Focus on the position of her tongue.

The feel of her teeth. Concentrate on what she needed to say and not to whom she was speaking.

The method worked. Sometimes .

Dufton swiveled in Lucy’s direction, studying her in bland appraisal.

Yes, I’m very much like a vase. And not a terribly expensive one.

“Mrs. Waterstone,” he drawled. “I find I need your assistance with a small matter.”

“Anything,” Sally simpered. She was sitting quite close to Dufton, practically in the earl’s lap, which was mildly alarming.

Better her than me.

“Miss Waterstone requires an entirely new wardrobe.” His gaze ran over Lucy’s sprigged muslin day dress, which was at least two years old.

Sally paled. Her lips pressed together. “My lord, given?—”

“At my expense, of course,” Dufton smoothly interrupted. “The dowager countess will be joining us at the Shaftoe ball specifically to make the acquaintance of Miss Waterstone. I do not want her disappointed, not when her approval is tantamount.”

How kind of him, to dress up the lamb for slaughter.

Sally nodded so furiously, Lucy thought her neck might snap. “As you wish, my lord. I’ll arrange for an appointment at the modiste immediately. Madame Lucien.”

“Madame Dupree,” Dufton inserted, once more cutting off Sally’s pretty speech. “Her gowns are the best in London, so I’m told, and the dowager countess favors her establishment. You will take her there to be properly outfitted, Mrs. Waterstone.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Good.” Dufton came smoothly to his feet. “Then I will take my leave. It has been a most delightful morning.” He gave a short bow to Sally. “Mrs. Waterstone.”

Lucy kept her gaze fixed on her slippers as Dufton took her hand and scraped his teeth deliberately over her knuckles.

How subtle.

“Good day, my lord,” Lucy murmured, her features composed into a placid mask. But beneath her skin, anger simmered and howled.

“How generous of Lord Dufton,” Sally said after he’d departed. “You aren’t even wed, yet he wishes you to have a new wardrobe. I’m sure jewels will follow. How lucky you are.”

Maybe you should wed him.

“Once you are his wife, his countess, there is little he will deny you.”

Not even a room in a sanitarium . “I haven’t agreed to wed him,” Lucy whispered, defiance sparking inside her.

Sally’s lips parted in surprise. “You’ll be a countess. Wealthy. Respected. You will hardly receive a better offer. Mr. Waterstone and I have decided it is in your best interests to wed Lord Dufton.”

“But I have not,” Lucy murmured. “The choice to marry is mine. I don’t believe Lord Dufton and I are a good match.” She debated on how much to say to Sally. “He made threats?—”

“Threats? Nonsense. Dufton isn’t some thug on the street.

He is a peer. An earl with a vast and prestigious family,” Sally trilled.

“You aren’t even wed, and yet he’s gifting you with a new wardrobe from the most exclusive modiste in London.

You can have the pick of anything you want at Madame Dupree’s.

” Sally gave her a baleful look. “How selfish you are, Lucy. Considering only yourself and no one else. Did it ever occur to you that Mr. Waterstone and I might want our own family?”

Well, that was rather blunt.

“Do you expect to live here forever?”

“No. I?—”

“What will you do if you don’t wed Dufton?

Become a governess?” Sally made a derisive sound.

“Who on earth would employ you after hearing your speech? Oh, I suppose you could become a paid companion, but however would you secure such a position? You know no one in society.” Sally rolled her eyes.

“How ridiculous you are. We’ve presented you with a most suitable match—a splendid one, truth be told.

” A snort of derision followed her words.

“Marriage, for a young lady of your dubious qualities, is all that is available. You certainly cannot live on your father’s largesse forever, especially if you refuse Dufton. ”

Yes, his largesse. Which grows smaller every day.

“You’ve made my temples ache.” Sally’s heels clicked on the floor as she sailed from the drawing room, still chuckling softly. “A governess. Just imagine.”

Lucy inhaled through her nose. Clutched at her skirts. Refrained from chucking a small, hideous statue of a frog at Sally’s departing back. Once the sound of her steps faded, Lucy sat down once more.

I’m not good at rebellion.

Defiance was not part of her nature—and if it had once been, it had long ago been snuffed out. When Mama had declared one spring day that there was no pleasing Gerald Waterstone and she no longer wished to try, Father had scoffed.

If you don’t care to please me, then leave .

Mama had taken him at his word and run off with her lover.

Father had spewed the most… vile things about her mother.

He’d drunk far too much brandy. Ceased being the man who’d once taken Lucy to the park and shown her how to fly a kite.

Or tickled her before bedtime. Her obedience was the only thing that made him smile.

You love me, Lucy. You’ll never disappoint me.

She’d tried not to, terrified to lose the only parent she had.

When Father had hired Miss Capwitch to teach Lucy how to be a proper young lady and rid her of the terrible, horrible lisp, she had been overjoyed. Miss Capwitch would fix her. Father would be proud.

The governess had taught Lucy how to focus on the shape of her mouth.

Her tongue. Her teeth. To exercise composure.

Breathe slowly. Eventually, the lisp had become so faint, one could barely hear it…

unless Father entered the room. At the least sign of annoyance or disapproval from him, Lucy’s tongue would stick to the back of her teeth no matter Miss Capwitch’s instruction.

He demanded she stay silent. If she must speak, let it be in a whisper.

Miss Capwitch was sacked.

Lucy embraced silence.

And she’d been silent ever since. Still.

Invisible. Father was pleased. He would go on for hours, speaking of his business schemes while she scoured books and newspapers for information that might help him.

She’d learned much. Made quiet suggestions.

Became useful. Accepted this was her purpose, and she had been content.

She stared at the gardens rapidly falling into disarray outside the window.

Her first true act of defiance had been ignoring Father’s demand to keep her distance from Harrison Estwood at Granby’s house party. But Father had promptly stamped out her rebellion as easily as he ground out a cheroot.

Her life had become smaller after that. Father’s dictates more stringent.

He’d begun to court Sally, and Lucy had become less a daughter and more a tragic burden, her existence suffocating.

And when her birthday had come and gone with not so much as a word—and certainly no bloody cake—she’d visited Mr. Hopps.